


A Treatise on the Domestication of Foxes; Or, on the Ways in Which One Might Acquire a Family, Should One Find Oneself Without

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Death and mourning, Declarations Of Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Margherita is the better sibling, Meet the Family, cooking together, family fic, peripheral dunking on Alessandro Machiavelli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: Volpe had to conclude, in no uncertain terms, that he was being hunted, and by a formidable foe indeed.
Relationships: Niccolò Machiavelli/La Volpe
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	A Treatise on the Domestication of Foxes; Or, on the Ways in Which One Might Acquire a Family, Should One Find Oneself Without

**Author's Note:**

> using AC's busted "Machiavelli was chancellor in 1494" timeline because Plot Convenience. intended for this to just be a chapter for Prince and Fox but it got away with me, pleasantly so.
> 
> how's the global pandemic treating y'all?? have this fluffy meet the family fic to ease your heart in these troubling times.

Volpe knew he was being followed.

Being followed, in and of itself, was not new, as he spent more time than most dodging tails. Envious competitors, determined investigators, studious recruits—master of thieves and all, being followed came with the territory. Normally he shook them with ease and went about his day.

The problem today was that he could not tell _who_ was following him. All he felt was that familiar prickling feeling on the back of his neck, the weight of careful eyes on his back. But when he turned to locate his watcher, he saw only the usual mill of Florentines going about their business, and never the same face twice. Periodically he took to the rooftops, doubled back on his route, took detours, but once he was on the ground again, he felt those eyes once more, as if they’d never lost him for a moment.

There were very, very few people in the world, let alone in Florence, who could unnerve him so, and Volpe was quick to eliminate them as suspects. Ezio was reportedly sulking around the Palazzo Medici, trying to wrangle a contact, and had been there for the better part of the last few days, so he was out. His Niccolò had grumblingly told him that morning that the Ten of War would be consuming most of his day; a guard standing outside the Palazzo Vecchio, after Volpe made him a florin richer, confirmed that the Ten were still very much in session and likely wouldn’t adjourn till that evening.

So that was both of them accounted for, and in any case, neither Ezio nor Machiavelli had cause to prowl around after him while evading notice. This led Volpe to conclude, in no uncertain terms, that he was being hunted, and by a formidable foe indeed.

The advantage to being hunted and knowing it was that he could bait his stalker out if he played things right. Anyone trying to accost him, Volpe figured, would make their move when he was on his own, so he chose a secluded little alley in the northernmost district of the city. But he loitered there for an hour without encountering anything more suspicious than a stumbling drunk and a few stray cats.

He spent the remainder of his day wandering from one isolated location to the next, waiting for his stalker to make their move, but it never came. Beyond puzzled, he finally snuck back into the Palazzo Vecchio that night and slipped into Niccolò’s quarters. After a long day in session Machiavelli was all furrowed brows and grinding teeth, but he listened to Volpe’s recounting of his strange day without complaint.

“You’re being paranoid,” he said, while Volpe was describing the third of seven quiet alleys where he’d tried to bait out his stalker.

“I know when I’m being followed,” Volpe shot back, a little hotly.

Niccolò stretched out on the bed, thighs spread in blatant invitation, but Volpe remained seated on the windowsill, brooding. His partner sighed. “If they didn’t attack you when you gave them ample opportunity, maybe an attack isn’t their intent. Perhaps they’re an admirer.”

Volpe flicked an eyebrow upward. “An admirer. You mean like the little pissant who followed you all around in Pisa?”

“I don’t mean an aspiring master thief, Gilberto,” Niccolò said, amused. “I mean an _admirer_.”

Volpe frowned at him a moment, and then it clicked. “ _Oh_.” He rubbed his chin, thinking, and at length shook his head. “No. If they’re good enough to follow me for a full day without my finding them out, then surely they’d have the confidence to approach me, rather than hide like a lovestruck schoolboy.”

Machiavelli’s sigh was long-suffering. “I think you underestimate just how intimidating you are. The confidence of most men isn’t sufficient to confront you.”

“You did,” Volpe pointed out, and Niccolò’s smile turned knife-sharp.

“I’m not most men.”

“Brat,” Volpe said, and tried to make it grumbling, but he knew the fondness of his tone betrayed him. He gazed at the raven-dark spill of Niccolò’s hair across the pillow, at the tempting glimpses of skin showing through the laces that ran up the side of his hose, and felt a familiar hungry heat flicker in his gut. He swallowed. “Who in this entire city is skilled enough to dog me without being found? Only someone of our background and training, surely.”

“Surely,” Niccolò echoed, and frowned. He looked thoughtful, and his brow furrowed like it did when he had just made an important connection, but at length he only shook his head. Then he caught Volpe looking at him, and his smile came back, lovely and wicked in its intent. “Put it out of your head for tonight.”

“Oh? And what shall I do to distract myself?” Volpe taunted, and when Niccolò beckoned him with the lazy, self-assured crook of one finger, Volpe went like a sailor lured by a siren’s call.

* * *

His pursuer made him suffer another three full days. Volpe’s unease began to escalate into something like panic—if he couldn’t ascertain what his stalker wanted, then he couldn’t risk returning to his thieves’ den, nor any of the hideouts established by the brotherhood. He even avoided the Palazzo Vecchio, on the off-chance that one of those vipers in the Signoria was trying to connect him to Niccolò, though he doubted it. They were too careful and too clever by far to be caught by the likes of Machiavelli’s colleagues.

On the fourth day, Volpe was tired, uncharacteristically nervous, and to top it all off, hadn’t been in his lover’s bed in over seventy-two hours, and for that alone he was ready to cut his stalker’s throat. Fed up, he resolved to make this whole stalking business as tedious for his pursuer as it was for him. At the height of the day’s heat he strolled to the Ponte Vecchio and took a seat on a bench outside a butcher’s shop. People milled about, arguing over cups of watered wine, lounging on tables outside shops. A young woman took a seat at the other end of his bench and propped open a book in her lap; a small clutter of children scampered back and forth across the bridge, kicking a ball and shrieking with laughter. Volpe let his back rest against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. If his pursuer was so foolish as to try and cut his throat in broad daylight in front of half the city, on their head be it.

“You alright?”

He cracked an eye open. The woman on the bench was looking at him. She was fair but dark-haired, and the look in her eyes was exceptionally careful, studious almost. Something about her was vaguely familiar, but Volpe was sure they’d never met. She quirked a somewhat lopsided smile when Volpe looked at her.

“Pardon my prying, but you seem exceptionally tired.”

“I am, rather.” He answered her smile with a rueful one of his own. “I find myself pursued by some master of shadows. Very irksome. A man can’t rest when he is dogged around every corner by some hunter with a hidden agenda.”

“I see.” She rested her chin on her fist, still surveying him with that same watchful gaze. “Have you considered the possibility that the one who dogs you is in fact a huntress?”

“I don’t—” he began, and then froze. She blinked at him, expression still schooled into one of perfect innocence, but her dark eyes glinted. Volpe sat up slowly, gripping the bench until his knuckles turned white, his mind racing. He couldn’t very well draw his dagger on a woman in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio, not without attracting a great deal of attention. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice tight.

“A little common courtesy,” the woman said, her voice still very light. “Normally, when one is courting, they make a point to introduce themselves to their paramour’s family.”

Volpe’s mouth went slack with shock, and he stared at her with such incredulity that she actually giggled. Then her eyes slid past him, over his shoulder, and her grin widened.

“Speak of the devil himself—hi, Colo.”

Volpe frowned his confusion, then jumped when a hand alighted on his shoulder. He whirled about to find Niccolò standing beside him, frowning hard at the young woman on the bench.

“I knew it,” Niccolò sighed, propping his other hand on his hip and arching his brows. “Does this mean you’re done tormenting him?”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just introduced him to us like a normal person, Colino,” the young woman countered, getting to her feet.

Niccolò scowled. “Don’t call me that. And also, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Should I introduce you to all of my friends?”

“Oh, come off it—you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“I know you think you’re clever, but—”

“Excuse me,” Volpe interrupted, and they both looked at him like they’d both entirely forgotten he was even there. “Would someone please tell me what the _hell_ is going on?”

Niccolò sighed and grimaced, raking a hand through his hair. “It would appear, Volpe, that the one dogging your heels for the last four days was my own sweet sister.”

“Sis—” Volpe looked back and forth between them, and yes, now that he was looking, the resemblance really was awfully blatant. He actually felt a little stupid for not seeing it the moment she’d sat down beside him. “ _Sister_?”

“Margherita di Bernardo Machiavelli,” Niccolò said, his tone dripping annoyance, and she waggled her fingers at Volpe with a grin. “And I suppose you already know his name?”

“I certainly do, but it’s nice to meet you officially, Gilberto,” she replied, and Volpe’s mouth fell open.

“ _How_ did you—?”

“I’m exceptionally intelligent, for one thing,” Margherita said, still smiling, and Niccolò groaned. “And for another, you two are just not as quiet in bed as you think you are.”

They both stared at her then, aghast, and Margherita Machiavelli dissolved into giggles.

* * *

“Your _sister_ is an assassin?”

Niccolò shook his head. “Trained, but never inducted. She doesn’t have the heart for killing.”

He didn’t either, not really, but Volpe decided not to remind him of that. They walked together toward the Santo Spirito district, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Margherita had only let them go earlier that afternoon after making them promise to join her for dinner. Volpe felt nervous, and wiped his palms surreptitiously on his hose as they walked. He had never met a lover’s family, never even come close—that little ritual was so foreign to his world that the thought had never so much as crossed his mind.

“Relax,” Niccolò said, sounding amused, and he smiled when Volpe glared at him. “She already knows. We’ve got nothing left to hide.”

“I know that. It’s just—” Volpe paused, struggling. “What if she dislikes me?”

Niccolò caught his wrist and pulled him to a stop. Volpe couldn’t meet his eyes. “Gilberto,” Niccolò murmured, and forced Volpe to look at him with hands on his cheeks. “I don’t doubt for a moment that she’ll adore you, as I do. And even if she were to detest you, it wouldn’t change how I feel for you.” His gaze softened, and he tugged Volpe close. “You can be such a fool.”

Volpe closed his eyes, leaned into the kiss Niccolò pressed to his mouth, let himself be absorbed by it. He never knew quite what to do with himself when Machiavelli was so sweet to him, so gentle. Niccolò drew back and brushed a thumb across Volpe’s mouth, smiled, and then indicated the street with a jerk of his chin.

“Come on.”

The Palazzo Machiavelli was a short trot from the Ponte Vecchio. Volpe had been before, though, granted, he usually stole in at night. At four stories, it was one of the more impressive structures in the neighborhood. Niccolò led him through a rear entrance and through the courtyard, stopping only to politely address an older woman embroidering on a bench. He didn’t introduce Volpe, and for that the thief was grateful; if he had to meet every member of the extended house of Machiavelli today, he’d throw himself into the Arno.

“My aunt,” Niccolò told him out of the corner of his mouth as they took their leave of the courtyard. “My father’s brother’s wife. Absolutely detests me.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, for starters, I beat the shit out of her son when we were fifteen.”

Volpe cracked a grin. “ _Whatever_ for?”

“He was asking for it,” Niccolò answered, very matter-of-fact. “ _Loves_ being of the upper branch of the family, that Alessandro, never lets us forget it. He mouthed off about my father and—well, like I said. He asked for it. Anyway, he’s lucky he mouthed off in front of me and not Margherita. At least I’m capable of showing some restraint.”

“You said ‘for starters.’”

“Oh, yes.” Machiavelli cackled, pressing a hand to his mouth in a miserable attempt to hide his delight. “Last month, he had to drag his sorry ass to the Palazzo Vecchio and ask the chancellor to get him a job.”

Volpe snorted. “And did the most generous chancellor get him one?”

“He may have decided that the office of the second chancery was in need of a notary,” Machiavelli replied loftily, and the grin he tossed over his shoulder at Volpe was knife-sharp. “Biagio’s been begging me for an assistant.”

Volpe had to actually grasp Niccolò’s shoulder to stay upright, wheezing with laughter. “So, to clarify—your cousin talked some shit about your father over _ten years ago_ , so when he comes to you asking for a favor, you make him the assistant to _your_ assistant.”

“Well, part-time,” Niccolò said, and it took every ounce of Volpe’s willpower not to kiss that grin off his face.

* * *

Margherita had invited them for dinner; what she had neglected to mention was that she had absolutely no intention of preparing dinner herself, so while Niccolò grumblingly cooked, she made herself comfortable at the table across from Volpe.

“I didn’t think he’d ever settle down with anyone,” Margherita said, watching Volpe with an expression of such delight that he squirmed a little. “More accurately, I didn’t think anyone would ever consent to put up with him long-term.”

Volpe smiled and accepted Margherita’s offer of a cup of wine. “I have done that, I suppose.”

“You’re either very brave or very stupid—or both.”

“Massive masochist, actually,” Volpe said gravely, and she cackled.

Niccolò interrupted them to drop a bowl of bread on the table. “This is why I didn’t want you two to meet. You’re exactly the same brand of insufferable.”

“And that’s why we’re going to be dear friends from here on out,” Margherita said, her voice sickly-sweet, and Niccolò groaned. “Hey, you know I’m letting you off easy here. You should have brought him round ages ago.”

“It’s not entirely his fault,” Volpe said, tearing off a chunk of bread and lathering it generously in olive oil. “I am—shall we say—a very private person.”

“Has he met your family, then?”

Volpe swallowed a little too quickly and began to cough, beating a fist against his chest. “I, er—no. I haven’t got one for him to meet.”

Margherita looked at him a moment, her brows knitted, and Volpe was struck again by just how alike she and her brother looked. At length, she nodded. “Well, you have one now.”

“Hey,” Niccolò interjected, sparing Volpe having to answer, “where’s Totto?”

“At the church. I told him to be home for dinner. Our little brother,” Margherita added, noticing Volpe’s confused expression. “He’s aiming to become a priest.”

“A priest?” Volpe looked up at Niccolò, brows raised. “ _Your_ brother.”

Niccolò’s cheeks turned pink, and he hurriedly turned back to chopping tomatoes. “We’re—not very much alike.”

“No, Totto’s our mother’s son to a fault.” Margherita grinned and leaned over to punch Niccolò’s hip. “We’re our father’s, Colino and I.”

“I told you to quit calling me that.”

“What, haven’t told Gilberto about Mama’s pet names?”

“Colino, eh?” Volpe said, trying it out on his tongue, and grinned when Niccolò rounded on him with a scowl. “It’s cute. Suits you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Niccolò groused, and turned back to his chopping while Volpe and Margherita cackled.

Volpe was a little taken aback by how pleasant he found it—the sepia-tinted domesticity of it all, of a warm kitchen with a crackling fire and a table standing ready for a family to sit around it for a meal. He eventually got up to help, before Margherita could talk him into a third cup of wine, and he and Niccolò stood shoulder to shoulder rolling out pasta dough while Margherita chattered about their brother, about the fiery mare she’d finally broken in, about the neighbor’s son who was sleeping with the butcher’s wife.

Volpe felt like he was play-acting in a life that wasn’t his—their lives were blood and treachery and politics and blades in the dark. Just three weeks ago Machiavelli had stumbled into the thieves’ den in the dead of night with blood all over his assassin’s whites, and Volpe had washed it from his hands and face and stitched his wounds, and they had held one another in silence for a long time afterward. But the very next day Machiavelli was back in the Palazzo Vecchio and Volpe was back in the streets, because they knew their roles and played them well.

Tonight Niccolò had flour on his face and in his hair, the only red staining his clothes was from a bit of spilled drink, and he was laughing as Margherita told him about something their nephew had done the other day—gossiping, drinking wine, cooking dinner. Niccolò glanced over at him, found Volpe watching, and the smile he offered was a soft thing, impossibly fond. When he brushed a flour-covered hand along Volpe’s cheek, the thief didn’t know whether he would smile or cry—perhaps both. But he ducked his head and focused on rolling perfect penne, and somehow he got through.

Totto finally arrived as they were draining the pasta and Niccolò was finishing off a tomato sauce that lacked anything remotely resembling culinary finesse. He didn’t look much like his siblings, excepting his fair complexion and dark hair; his face was round, almost boyish, and he was built like a bull. But he really did have a gentle countenance, and he sidestepped Volpe’s offered hand and pulled him in for a back-breaking hug.

“I knew it,” Totto said, triumphant, as he turned toward his brother. “I _knew_ there was _someone_ —I mean, I thought it would be a girl, but _still_ , I knew.”

“Congratulations,” Niccolò snorted. “Bring me the basil, would you?”

They loaded up the table and took seats around it—Volpe could not remember the last time he had actually sat down for dinner with others. He did not even join his own thieves for communal meals, preferring to eat in the solitude of his own quarters. He and Niccolò took their meals when they could, usually wolfing something down during snatched moments of quiet, eating to keep themselves going—not to savor, or luxuriate in a few glasses of wine, and certainly not to have an excuse to enjoy good company.

“Tell me something,” he said finally, when he was confident that everyone had had enough wine for such a question. “You two don’t seem in the least bit perturbed that your brother’s lover is a man.”

Niccolò choked into his wine, and Totto thumped him heartily on the back. Margherita looked at Volpe with a curious expression, both surveying and a little perplexed.

“Nothing is true,” she said, suddenly more serious than he’d seen her thus far. “Everything is permitted. That was our father’s creed, and it’s ours, as well.” She shrugged. “Colo’s our brother. If he loves you, we love you too. It can be as simple as that.”

Volpe turned to Totto. “You’re a man of the church, though.”

Totto quirked a smile. “Judge not, and you will not be judged. Luke and Matthew. Shall I berate my brother for the speck in his eye when I have a log in mine?”

Niccolò groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. “I am _begging_ you to stop.”

His little brother laughed, hands raised in placation. “What kind of an assassin would I be if I bowed to dogma? I’ll admit I _was_ perturbed at first. But when I thought about it, I decided I didn’t want to be the sort of man who begrudges his own brother a chance at happiness.” He lowered his hands, and his smile turned a little sad. “Maybe if I’d found out a year ago, I’d have reacted differently. I better understand what’s important now.”

Volpe quirked his brows. “What happened a year ago?”

Margherita’s smile slid from her face. She turned her gaze on Niccolò, who tactfully avoided her eyes. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Rita,” he said lowly, shifting in his seat, but was interrupted by the sound of a door opening from the entry hall. He jerked his head up, mouth falling open. “Oh, shit. You didn’t—”

“Oops,” Margherita cackled, and got to her feet, heading for the front door.

Niccolò groaned and dropped his face into his hands, and Volpe nudged him in the ribs. “Hey—who’s that?”

“It’s our—”

But then a man who looked, for all the world, like a Niccolò in twenty years’ time stepped into the kitchen. He was taller than either Niccolò or Totto, and his black hair was streaked with gray and retreating from his temples, leaving him with a wickedly sharp widow’s peak. His face was one that spent most of its time laughing, as evidenced by the heavy lines around his mouth and eyes, and now it crinkled into a wide smile when grey eyes landed on Volpe.

“You must be Gilberto,” the older man said, and stepped up to the table, pulled Volpe to his feet, and locked him in a hug, clapping a hand around his shoulders. “ _Bene_. Welcome, welcome—finally, I should say.” He set Volpe—dazed—back in his seat, then turned to Niccolò and ruffled a hand into his hair. “It’s about time you brought him round, Colo. Don’t be rude, introduce me!”

“ _Scusa_ ,” Niccolò muttered, petulant, but he smiled and offered Volpe a shrug. “This is my father, _Messer_ Bernardo di Niccolò Machiavelli. Bernardo, this is Gilberto, my—uh—”

“Love of his life,” Margherita crooned, and Niccolò chucked a bread roll at her.

Volpe could not quite marshal a response. Siblings were one thing—parents were entirely another. Despite the congeniality of the introduction, he was bracing himself to get hit, or tossed bodily onto the doorstep—what sane person would be _pleased_ to meet the man sodomizing his son? But Bernardo prepared himself a plate and took a seat on Volpe’s other side, helped himself to a glass of wine, and said lightly, “So, what are we gossiping about?”

“We were just about to berate Colino for not telling Gilberto anything about Mama and Primavera,” Margherita said promptly, and Niccolò hissed at her.

“ _Rita_ —”

“What?” Bernardo demanded, leaning around Volpe to glare his eldest son. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Christ,” Niccolò muttered, sinking down in his seat.

Volpe looked back and forth between him and Bernardo, eyebrows raised. “ _What?_ Tell me already.”

“Their mother died last year,” Bernardo said, and Volpe blinked, taken aback. “My wife. And their sister Primavera shortly thereafter.”

Volpe stared at him for a prolonged moment before turning back to Niccolò. His lover wouldn’t meet his gaze, picking at his plate instead with a dark scowl. After a moment, his eyes darted up to Volpe’s face, and Volpe saw a flash of something there—anger, grief, frustration, some heated medley of dark things that would burden any man’s heart. Niccolò abruptly got to his feet, muttered something about wanting some air, and left out the back door, leaving Volpe staring after him.

Bernardo heaved a sigh and poured himself another glass of wine. “He’s always been difficult. You must have incredible patience, Gilberto.”

“I don’t,” Volpe said faintly, still staring at the back door, which Niccolò had left ajar. He got to his feet. “Excuse me.”

“Don’t let him yell at you,” Margherita advised, smiling, and Volpe returned it somewhat weakly before heading out the back door.

The door opened into the palazzo’s courtyard. He found Niccolò seated on the ground outside, partially hidden by a teeming bed of lilies and oleander, scowling down at the dirt between his boots and idly scratching the ears of a skinny cat that purred as it twisted circles around his ankles. He didn’t so much as glance up as Volpe approached and eased himself down onto the ground.

“I know I should have told you,” Niccolò said without preamble, and without lifting his head. “I just…couldn’t find the words.”

“‘My mother died’ would have sufficed.” Volpe paused, hesitating, but then he lifted a hand and stroked the back of Niccolò’s hair. “I’m not angry. I only wish I had known so I could have been there for you. You didn’t let anything on.”

A moment passed, and then Niccolò sighed and leaned into Volpe’s side, let the thief slip an arm around him. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize.”

“I know. I’m still sorry.” A second sigh shuddered Niccolò’s narrow shoulders, and Volpe squeezed him closer. “I wish you could have met her.”

“Your mother?”

“No,” Niccolò snorted. “I mean Primavera. You would have loved her.”

“If she was anything like Margherita, I don’t doubt it.”

Niccolò laughed, a short, brittle thing. “They couldn’t have been more different. Primavera was a gentle soul. Very soft-spoken, very kind. Delicate.” He paused. “She just…got sick. And then she was gone. It was so damn fast.”

“It must have been hard,” Volpe said softly. He couldn’t relate, having never known the people who were related to him by blood, but he had certainly lost people who were important to him. Plenty of them—enough that at some point he had stopped drawing people close at all, until Niccolò had come along.

“I didn’t even cry.” Niccolò tilted his head back, frowning up at his partner. “I still haven’t cried. I don’t even feel—sad, really. I think about her and don’t…don’t feel anything.”

Volpe hummed, caressing his hair. “You will. The aftermath of a death can feel like a long, profound silence. You’re in shock, _tesoro_.”

“It’s been a _year_.”

“She was your sister,” Volpe said gently, and Niccolò huffed, lowering his head back to the thief’s shoulder. “What about your mother?”

Niccolò was quiet for a moment. The cat meowed for his attention, and he scratched it behind the ears. “We always had a little trouble understanding each other,” he said at length. “I know she loved me, but I…think I scared her.”

Volpe understood that—he understood that all too well. He pressed his mouth into Niccolò’s dark hair and closed his eyes, felt the younger man soften against him. He was relieved, somehow, that the full reality of his sister’s death hadn’t yet landed—it meant that Volpe could be there for him when it did.

“I love you,” Niccolò said suddenly, his voice small and wondering, and Volpe smiled into his hair.

“I know.”

“It just occurred to me that I’ve never said so.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, though. A hundred times.” Niccolò sat up, slid a hand around Volpe’s neck to tug him close. “Do you—?”

“God, yes,” Volpe breathed, and kissed him, kissed him so there could be no doubt, broke away only long enough to murmur at him, “I always have,” then claimed his mouth again. Niccolò pressed into him, holding him, his mouth hungry, and when they broke apart the young man’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark and wild, lips softly swollen and smiling.

“Good,” he said simply, and Volpe laughed, kissed him again, just for the taste of him.

“Hey,” Margherita’s voice said behind them, and they both turned, a little breathless. She grinned at them from the doorway and crooked a finger. “If you’re done, come back inside. Dinner’s getting cold, and Papa’s two glasses of wine ahead of you.”

“Figures,” Niccolò snorted, and got to his feet, held out a hand for Volpe to take. Volpe did, and when Margherita ducked back into the house, he looped his arms around Niccolò’s waist and pulled him in close, pressing against the younger man’s back and landing a soft bite against the side of his neck. Niccolò laughed and planted a hand on his face, pushing him off. “ _Later,_ Gilberto.”

“Tonight,” Volpe murmured, kissing his shoulder. “Here. In your bed.”

“Yes, yes,” Niccolò snorted, and turned in his lover’s arms to catch a brief kiss. “Come on.”

They stumbled back into the kitchen, where indeed Bernardo was pouring himself another glass of wine, he and Totto wheezing with laughter over some shared jest while Margherita rolled her eyes at them. Niccolò took his seat, clapping a hand on his father’s shoulder. Volpe hovered for a moment by the door, looking at all of them, let himself believe for a moment that this could be his, too—a table with food spread upon it, a family who would be happy to see him come home.

“Gilberto,” Niccolò said, and Volpe looked at him—flour still stuck to his hair, a smile on his face, in love, with _him_. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Volpe grinned. “Always,” he said, and slid into the chair at Niccolò’s side.


End file.
